Shooting Matt Ch. 19

"I wasn't there, Ron. Kent told me the same thing he told you. As long as he keeps the burns clean and there's no infection, he should heal up in a couple of weeks with little or no scaring."

"And what's he supposed to do until then," Mrs. Morris snaps, glaring at me. "He should have never been taken out of the hospital."

I'm not sure how to respond to that.

"Agnes, Randy had nothing to do with that and you know it. The doctors decided he could go home. Randy simply stepped in to help. There's no need of throwing around that snappish voice of yours."

"Well, he should stay here with us. If he's not going to stay in the hospital, this is where he should be."

"Fine by me," Ron offers mildly. "You going to change those bandages of his?"

"You know my arthritis won't let me do that kind of work," she sniffs at him. "I would if I could."

The crochet needle never slows. I look at it, look at Ron. He gives a nearly imperceptible shrug. I look away. This is clearly a long running battle. Unless push comes to shove, I'm staying out of it.

"Well, if you can't, what are we going to do? Huh? I can give him a pat on the back but I'm not touching those burns with these mitts." He holds up his callused and cracked hands. "I can't scrub 'em enough to not worry about getting dirt in his burns."

"I told him I'd take care of that," I offer.

"You? You're not a nurse. You said you drove a forklift."

I take a slow breath. Her voice drips with disdain.

"You're right. But Kent walked me through it. I'm not a nurse but I can do what needs to be done."

"Ron, what's the name of that girl Kent dated in high school? She's a nurse, isn't she? Maybe she can come over and take care of changing the dressings?"

"Agnes," Ron sighs, his head hanging down. "Kent never 'dated' a girl in high school. He 'went out' with a few but he didn't 'date' any of them. You know that. For Pete's sake, give it a rest. Our son does not date girls or women. He hasn't and he won't."

"Don't you dare say that," she gasps. "This foolishness is something he'll grow out of. He'll realize he wants a family and put this, this, gay nonsense aside."

"If you folks would excuse me. I think I'll hit the sack. Where should I sleep?"

"Well, I suppose Agnes could move back into our room and you could have the guest room."

"I'll get him a quilt and a pillow for the couch," Agnes retorts, dropping her crocheting into a large open bag sitting beside her chair.

Ron lumbers to his feet, intercepting her. "No, no you won't. He's not sleeping on that damn lumpy davenport. Not after what he's doing for our son." He looks over his shoulder. "There's two beds in Kent's room. Sleep in there."

"Ronald Morris! Are you out of your mind? I forbid it?"

"Agnes, you're my wife. I vowed a long time ago to stick with you through better or worse and to respect you. I've done my best to do that. But, and I mean this, you need to hush up now. Hush up and go to bed. If you can't be respectful, then just go to bed."

She opens her mouth, eyes blazing.

"Stow it, Agnes. Just stow it."

I can't see his face but whatever she sees shuts her up. She sniffs and pushes past the two of us, huffing.

"Randy, I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I appreciate the support."

"Don't judge her too harshly, if you can manage it. She wasn't always like this." He shakes his head. "It's getting hard to see even a little bit of the woman I married." He looks at me. "You'd have liked her. Honest."

I'm not so sure of that but I nod.

"You want a beer before you hit the hay?"

I'm dead on my feet but I can't say no to that lost look on his face.

***

"She really did it?"

"Brah, what do you think?" Matt snorts at the screen of his phone.

"Yeah," the screen image of Liam smiles. "She's unbelievable, isn't she?"

"That's not even close. I'm waiting for her to part the waters or some shit." Matt's smile fades. "It's a total fuck up, dude. Rosalita, she's like third-generation American. Her husband wasn't, though. His folks brought him across when he was a teenager. They were heading to New York. She has a cousin there. They thought he'd be safer in New York than Arizona. She's fucking pregnant, dude. Pregnant, with a two-year-old and, now, a fucking dead husband. Fuck."

Liam has no idea what to say to that. At the moment, he feels much older than his friend. He's had plenty of chances to see how fucked up the world can be. He understands Matt's confusion at the unfairness of the world; it's just hard for him to remember what that confusion felt like.

"She's got Glenna," he offers. "And Leon. They'll take care of her."

Matt smiles again. "Bro, you're right."

Liam smiles back. "I think I know a way to get your mind off it."

"Oh, really? Do tell, dude. Do tell."

"Hang on a sec."

The picture tilts. Matt sees the ceiling, the floor, a window with the shade drawn, then the screen shows Liam's bed. There's some more jiggling, then the bed is centered.

Liam sits on the bed and pulls his tee shirt off.

"Dude, are you on your phone?"

Liam shakes his head. "Laptop."

"Can you bring it closer?"

Liam gets up. "Let me try something," Matt hears from the speakers.

"I put it on the chair. It looks okay to me. How's it at your end?"

"Do I need to see the whole bed?"

"Naw, maybe half or so."

"Then we're good. Or we will be when you get the rest of your clothes off," Matt growls.

Liam stands. His crotch fills the screen. He slowly pulls his shorts down. His dick is already half-hard.

"Oh, fuck yeah, bitch," Matt moans as Liam begins to pull at his cock. He pulls and strokes until his dick is hard, then steps back and sits on the edge of the bed. He leans back on one elbow and starts to stroke.

"Jesus, that's fucking hot, bro. Stroke that cock. Fuck."

Liam is silent. His eyes are fixed on the small image of Matt's face in the corner of the screen.

"Fuck me. I wish I was there." Matt's voice is nearly a whimper.

"Me, too."

Liam strokes his cock. Matt's eyes are glued to the screen. When he's sure he's got Matt's attention, Liam swivels, reaching down. He stays there, leaning off the bed long enough for Matt to start to wonder what the hell he's doing. When he sits back up, the mystery is solved.

"Oh, fuck yeah, dude. Fuck."

"That's the idea," Liam chuckles and he puts one foot up on the bed. The dildo has a long handle but it's slick with lube. He almost drops it as he maneuvers it under his leg.

"God, I wish you could zoom that camera, brah," Matt sighs. The sigh changes to a soft moan as the head of the dildo disappears into Liam's ass. He keeps pushing until the flange is pressed hard against his ass.

"Um, that feels good, not as good as your cock, but good."

He begins to move the dildo and Matt gives another moan. "Fuck, dude. Let me jerk off," he begs.

"No, no way. You watch, then I watch. That's the deal."

"Can't I..."

"Nope, don't even touch it. I don't care how hot you get watching me fuck myself."

"No fair, brah," Matt whines, as one hand squeezes the head of his cock. He's wearing shorts; that's it. He grows quiet as, on the screen, Liam begins to seriously get into it.

He puts both feet on the bed, then pulls his knees to his chest. Matt can't see his face very well in that position but he can see his ass and the way the purple plastic cock stretches it. He squeezes harder.

Liam stands up, kneels on the bed, looks underneath and to the side to make sure his ass is visible on the screen and starts to fuck himself again. His dick flops between his legs.

After a while, he stands again, lies back down, in profile to the camera rather than facing it.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Matt gasps.

Liam flips his legs over his head. The toes on the foot away from the camera clutch at the top of the bed's headboard. He keeps the other leg straight, the foot against the wall above the bed. Despite the fact he's in the middle of putting on a sex show for his lover, Liam reminds himself to make sure there's not a footprint on the new paint.

His far arm goes around the bent leg and begins to work the dildo. His other hand begins to pull and stroke at his dick. Without Matt's weight pressing down on him, he can't quite get the head of his cock to his lips, not at first anyway.

He turns his head. His eyes dart from Matt's face to his own image on the computer. He watches himself jerk his dick, watches himself work the dildo, watches Matt's face.

His body gradually relaxes, stretches. When he turns away from the screen, he can get his lips around the tip of his dick. He pushes the dildo in deep and begins to shake it, moving it back and forth and in circles, deep in his ass. He resists the urge to really pound his meat; he doesn't want to dislodge it from his mouth. He strokes with only his thumb and index finger, short strokes, just behind the head.

He wonders if Matt can tell when he cums. He keeps jerking until there's nothing left to jerk, then he pushes off the wall and rolls to sit on the edge of the bed. He leans towards the camera and opens his mouth, watching Matt's face.

"Jesus, dude. You're killing me. I fucking want to suck your fucking mouth right now. Godddamn," Matt groans.

Liam closes his mouth. His throat works. When he opens his mouth, it's empty.

Matt's groan is almost a sob.

"My turn," Matt growls.

Liam lies on his side, fondling his dick and watching Matt.

It hurts his back to slouch in the kitchen chair. Matt takes his phone and lies down on the bed. He holds the phone by his head and points it at his cock. He touches his finger tip to the head of his cock and draws out a strand of precum. He strokes his cock using his left hand. His right hand holds the phone. His left hand is turned over, thumb down, palm toward his feet.

He strokes and squeezes the head and smears the head with the clear liquid his fist has forced out of his cock. He beats his meat, hard, hoping Liam can hear the sound through the shitty speakers on the laptop.

Liam can hear fine but the picture is jumping all over the place.

"Slow down, Matt. Stroke nice and slow so I can watch."

His words penetrate the haze of horniness that's enveloped Matt's brain. He slows down.

In the end, he emulates his lover and strokes with just two fingers.

Cum arches toward the phone, looking as if it will fly out of the screen and onto the bed beside Liam. Wouldn't that be fucking grand?

He turns the phone to show his fingers plucking and wiping at the pools of jizz on his belly and chest, then turns it again as he pops his fingers into his mouth and sucks.

***

Kent has me wedged against the wall when I wake up. It's a twin bed. Neither of us is overweight but we're both grown men. I can barely move and he must be hanging half out of the bed. This is ridiculous. I want to move but I'm not sure where his hands are. I don't want to squash one of his hands.

"Hang on, I'll move."

His breath tickles my neck. How the fuck does he do that? Read my mind like that?

The bed shifts and suddenly I have room enough for a deep breath. I roll over.

Kent is stretching, bandaged hands held high. He's wearing pajama bottoms. I've never seen him wear pajamas to bed. His morning wood tents the front. It's fucking hot. Maybe I should ask him to stop sleeping naked. Damn. I resist the temptation to hop out of bed, jerk open the fly of his PJs, and pull his cock out and suck it.

He shudders at the end of an enormous yawn and lowers his hands. He peers at the bandages. I can see a couple of spots where they look wet.

"Is that normal?" I ask, nodding at his hands.

"Yeah. The blisters are going to weep for a few days. The fluid is thought to help healing and prevent infection," he grimaces. "At least that's what the burn guys who believe in popping the blisters say."

"How's the pain?"

"Not good, but tolerable. I'll take some ibuprofen before we tackle these fucking things."

He never says 'fuck', or almost never. He's either hurting or stressed or both.

"Help me with my robe, would you?"

I climb out of bed and pick up the robe he's gestured at. It takes a little work to get the bulky bandages through the sleeves but I manage it while only making him wince a couple of times.

"No point in tying it until after I take a leak," he sighs.

I don't mind. He looks goddamn hot, pajama bottoms hanging off his hips, dick swaying beneath the cotton, bathrobe open. He doesn't ever need to tie his robe as far as I'm concerned.

There's only one bathroom for the two upstairs bedrooms.

"Let me make sure mom is up and downstairs," Kent whispers, after kissing me on the cheek.

He opens the door slowly, tensing when it squeaks. For a guy in his mid-thirties he looks a lot like a teenage trying to sneak out of his room.

He sighs, straightens up, and opens the door.

"Her door is open. That means she's done up here for the day. Help me with the ibuprofen?"

I nod and follow him across the hall. I turn on the cold water tap to let it get cool and thumb open the bottle. "Four?" he nods and I dump four blue green caplets into the palm of my hand. "Can you manage the glass?"

"Not too full."

I fill the glass with what I guess is a double shot of Nashville's finest tap water.

"Open up." He tips his head back and I drop the caplets in his mouth. He drains the glass and holds it out toward me.

"More, please."

"Coming up."

He tips back the second double shot of water and sighs.

He steps past the sink and lifts the toilet seat with one foot. He paws at the waist band of his PJs, scowling.

I chuckle. I can't help it. "How did you get the damn things on?"

He shrugs his shoulders and then slumps against the wall behind him.

"I don't know. This sucks, Randy. Sucks."

"Yeah, sort of but I'm not complaining. It could have been a whole lot worse." I step beside him. "Here, it's not like I haven't touched your dick before."

Rather than pull the PJs down, I unsnap the fly and fish his half-hard dick out.

"You okay from here?"

He looks at me. I think he looks uncomfortable but not totally. There's something else going on in those eyes.

"I don't want to pee on my bandages."

I can see that; I can. But I know I didn't hold his dick for him yesterday. Come to think of it, how'd he get his fly unzipped yesterday? Is he playing me? His dick looks like it's getting hard. My eyes shoot to his face.

He's fucking smiling.

I shake my head. I'll be damned.

I step behind him, pushing him away from the wall. I reach around him and hold his dick loosely in my hand. My own dick is getting hard. There's a moment of hesitation and then he's pissing. His dick swells when he pisses, just like when he cums only it lasts longer.

When he's done, I shake his dick once then squeeze the head. A drop of pee collects on my fingers. I put them in my mouth. The taste is pretty harsh.

He shakes his head and tilts his head back for a kiss.

I take a leak and belt his robe for him. He heads downstairs. I skip back into the bedroom to throw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I hope the jeans will hide my boner. I let the tee shirt hang out to help provide some cover.

Kent is sitting at the table, a plate of eggs, bacon and toast in front of him. Ron is at the sink, washing a plate. Agnes is at the table, looking like she might cough up a hair ball any second. A cup of coffee sits beside her. And between her hands? A Bible. I smile to myself.

"How do you like your eggs, Randy?" Ron asks, drying his hands.

"Coffee and toast will do me, thanks."

My stomach growls and Ron throws back his head and barks a single loud, sharp guffaw.

"Kent, how does the man like his eggs?"

"Over easy."

Ron nods. "Okay if just flip bacon grease over 'em? I'm not the best at flippin' 'em without bustin' the yolk."

"Perfect."

"Help yourself to coffee."

I do. "Morning, Miz Morris," I offer as I sit down. She snorts. I smile. I can't help it. "Did you sleep well, ma'am?"

She doesn't answer. I'm thinking this will be fun, then I see the look on Kent's face. God, I'm a fucking idiot sometimes. I shut the hell up and drink my coffee.

Ron sets a plate in front of me. Three eggs and a half-a-dozen strips of bacon. I fucking love the guy.

"It's going to be a hot one today, fellas. This old place doesn't have air conditioning, 'cept a window unit in the main bedroom. The fans'll keep you from dyin' of heat stroke but that's about it."

I take a bite of bacon and look at Kent. "You said you lived in Nashville."

"It's only an hour away."

"Well, if it gets too hot, the truck's A/C works. You can show me around your home town."

"Nothing to see."

"Okay, we don't have to but I'd like to. Even if there's nothing to see. I grew up in Cleveland. I sort of know milk comes out of a cow but that's about it."

Ron chuckles. Agnes? A snort.

"Cities, they're what ruined Kent. He was fine until he went off to college." She says the word 'college' in the same tone of voice she'd have said, 'a bloated rotting corpse with maggots squirming in the eye sockets'.

Kent opens his mouth. I nudge his foot. He looks at me. I shake my head. I silently beg him to let it go.

"Well, Agnes, if you knew of a way Kent could become a nurse without going to college why didn't you say so? It would've saved me a lot of money. Naw, it would have saved Kent a lot of money is what I should've said. He paid his own way. Every goddamn red cent of it."

Agnes' hands tighten on the Bible in front of her. "Ronald? Since when do we take the name of the Lord in vain in this house?"

"You're right. You're right as rain. I apologize."

"He should have stayed here and helped you with the farm."

"Uh-huh, you've said as much but I don't need much help with the farm and it barely keeps body and soul together for the two of us. Not sure, we could've kept feeding the boy. He's got a prodigious appetite, though you couldn't prove that this morning."

I glance at Kent's plate. He still has an egg left. I wonder if he had three as well. He's not touched his bacon.

"You need help with that?" I nod at his plate.

"No, I'm fine." After a pause he adds, "thanks", in a softer tone.

"I have to tell you Kent, in my house bacon left too long on a plate was considered fair game."

"You can have it."

I sigh. "Buddy, I don't want it. I have my own. Is the ibuprofen bothering your stomach? Seriously, I don't know how you manage anything with those volleyballs wrapped around your hands. You need me to cut up the bacon?"

I slip my foot out of my slipper and rub the side of his leg.

He pinches a piece of bacon between he's thumb and forefinger. He takes a bite, then, fucking abracadabra, prestidigitation and the bacon disappears.

His father smiles as Kent struggles to get a hold of another strip. I put a finger on the other end to keep it from moving around and he snags it.

Agnes pushes her plate back. "Your aunt Grace called, she's down in her back. I told her I'd stay with her a few days, till she's better. Sorry, I won't be able to stay for your visit."

"It's okay, ma. I just wanted you to see I wasn't dead. I'm only staying a day or two. You don't have to go."

"What's that got to do with the price of tea in China?" she snaps. "Stay. Go. It doesn't do diddly squat for Grace's back."

Kent nods. "Tell her I hope she feels better."

The sound of her chair scraping as she pushes away from the table fills the silence. There's the sounds from the room upstairs. She leaves, lugging an antique suitcase, without saying good-bye.

I glance at my breakfast compatriots. They're looking down at the table. I don't have much of an appetite left but I pick up a piece of toast and poking one of the eggs in the eye. I mop up the yellow with the toast and take a bite. After a moment, Ron picks up his fork. Kent is last. He has trouble with the fork. He's only able to hold it between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. When I pick up a strip of bacon and hold it out for him he takes a bite without protesting.